Heart-Stopping Beauty
by molotovmullet
Summary: Where Soul can't help getting thrown under a bus - it's a van, really - when he sees her. He also walks into glass walls and promptly knocks himself out. (SoMa)


(A/N: Just a brief AU I thought of when I was in Ho Chi Minh city for holiday a while back. (: Enjoy!)

It's the same kind of evening it always is on Saturday evening - cluttered streets and congested roads and dust flying every which way. It's getting dark but he hides his eyes behind his goggles as always because the dust is suffocating and his eyes tend to scare away his customers.

At least behind the goggles the red is dark enough to pass as brown.

There's a day's worth of stubble rough on his chin and it's the last delivery of his day. He just wants to get home and polish the infernal dust off of his orange Harley and go to sleep for the next week or month or year but he doesn't have that luxury. He's starting to forget the point in cleaning his bike if it's just going to get dusty again the next day.

He still doesn't quite know what possessed him to move to Ho Chi Minh of all places, where he can't even begin to pronounce the words of their language, and where there's dust on everything and the road is a minefield. But there's a strange kind of order in the chaos, something he truly understands because it mirrors the insanity that curls around his soul, and he feels a little accomplished every day he doesn't get into an accident on the death traps disguised as traffic patterns - like he's testing his skills as a rider and his resistance against finding himself some large rusty piece of shit van to kill himself under, and far surpassing what even he expected of himself.

He likes it here. His hands are roughened and dusty from work and he doesn't have the time or energy to think about his family and music and whatever other banal shit that likes to tag along in the back of his mind like a festering wound.

As he wraps up his last delivery and climbs back on his bike, he decides on a whim that he'll take the time to wear his helmet after all. He's a few left turns away from his second, more stable job, when he sees her.

\- _I'm afraid of what I'll find if you and I talk tonight. -_

Naturally he still has to report for work, drenched, dislocated wrist, shredded leg and all, the butterfly bandages only just holding the cut on his forehead that bled everywhere together against the onslaught of his fierce scowl.

He can't believe he was distracted by a _girl_ of all things, and ended up nearly under the leaky exhaust pipe of some 2000s series Toyota. Ironic, because he'd just been congratulating himself on his lack of accidents moments before he ended up there. His left side is raw with scrapes, and the back of his left shoulder smarts against the antiseptic under self-adhered first aid.

The rain had started when he was halfway from his house to the bar on foot. Luckily Killik had been able to loan him a hoodie and a pair of jeans while he tossed his clothes into Spirit's washer and dryer.

That's not to say he doesn't relish the ache in his bones from slamming hard into the back of a van and careening under another MPV that had _just_ braked in time. He enjoys the pain - it replaces the insanity coiling in the depths of his mind with the dull throb of physical hurt. But he needs his wrist - both for his discjockeying job and for playing the piano (even if he claims to hate the latter, it's still a love he can't let go of after all this time and all this suffering at its hands). He hopes he hasn't messed it up in any permanent way.

Not to mention his Harley is FUBAR. He's going to have to spend all his time fixing it or working his butt off to make up for his losses _paying_ to fix it or worse - replacing it completely. He pushes the wooden door open with his bandaged hand, still scowling. It was so hard getting that model in orange and now his efforts have all been wasted. Not to mention he's two hours late for his shift and Liz had to do overtime on her date night and now he owes her one.

This day couldn't get any worse.

He's putting on his headphones and almost at the glass door to his workstation when he hears a knock on the glass wall to his left. He looks up and it's all green eyes and blonde hair again.

He promptly walks into the glass door and knocks himself out on the reinforced glass.

Fuck.

\- _When all I ever wanted was to dream another sunset with you. -_

When he wakes up his boss is being all sympathetic and he hates it. He's pretty banged up after all, his boss says, maybe he should take a few days off. What makes the whole situation fucking miserable is that it's _still_ raining, and what Soul hates more than the dust everywhere is a _wet_ version of the dust everywhere - some strange brand of gross mud that is more coagulated dust and random shit than earth.

Naturally, Soul can't go anywhere - his bike is busted and it's pouring and he can't walk all the way back to his apartment like _this_. Halfway was quite enough. He could catch a ride from Black*Star, his replacement and best friend, but that's only tomorrow morning and it's only barely 12AM. No way is he riding back with Tsubaki when she leaves at three - her place is in the opposite direction of his apartment building, and she has to get up early to work her afternoon shift at her dad's ramen store near the heart of the city. He could take a taxi, but he'd really rather not fall victim to motion sickness again and end up at _the Mekong Delta_ like he did the last time he fell asleep in a taxi.

So now he's sitting in the backroom of _Deathcity_ trying not to feel sorry for himself, blowing out rings of smoke with his cigarette in hand, as the girl who caused all of this wrings her hands sneaking glances at him from across the room. The door across from them is open and the sound of rain is soothing enough for him to forget about the pain and

"What are you doing here?" He grouses, cause he's in pain and tired and sore and he just can't keep his manners in check around the pretty creature that started it all. But mostly it's because he hasn't had water in a while.

"I wanted to ask you how you were feeling," she says, polite and kind of shy, but gaining in determination with each word.

"How do you think I'm feeling?" he growls, trying not to snarl at her outright. Why does she have to be so distractingly pretty?

Her green eyes flash with anger and he is loathe to admit it, but it somehow makes her more attractive - sexy, even with those modestly sized-

His brain is going to shut up now.

"You don't have to be such a bitch about it," he hears her say. His head almost snaps up to look at her (how can someone sound so _polite_ saying things like that?), but he manages to control his surprise and turns slowly instead, now snarling, razor sharp teeth showing.

"Excuse me? I ended up under a van because of you!"

She rolls her eyes at him and crosses her legs, right over left. Soul's snarl deepens at his own attraction to those long, long legs. Is a skirt that short even _legal?_ He focuses instead on her ash blonde hair, tied back into pigtails like a child, when he realises - _fuck_ \- he's attracted to those too.

He's starting to sound like he has a thing for lolitas.

"It's not like I _asked_ you to behave like a typical guy and ogle me!" she snaps and he takes another puff of his cigarette, somehow keeping the scowl in place despite his devious thoughts. "What kind of guy gets so distracted - to the point of getting into an _accident_ by the way - by a _girl_ of all things anyway?" She flips one blonde ponytail over her shoulder, but it looks unpracticed and nervous more than anything, despite her defiance. "Not forgetting the time you knocked yourself out, of course."

Soul drops his cigarette and crushes it under his heel with a dark chuckle. "Well, what are _you_ even doing here anyway? Stalking the only guy who would look at you, tiny tits?" he sneers. He hopes she doesn't realise he's just admitted to ogling her. She doesn't. She flushes a pretty shade of crimson - whether out of anger or embarrassment, he can't tell - and he grins, feeling more accomplished than he should.

"You're such a jerk!" She's glowering at him now, and Soul is starting to enjoy this a bit too much. "I just wanted to check on you to make sure you were okay!" She gives him a critical once over with narrowed eyes. "And now I can see I needn't have worried, seeing as you're in perfect shape to insult a _nice_ stranger!"

Soul rolls his eyes as she stands, grasping a duffel in one hand and shouldering another by a long strap, and walks to the door, hips swaying exaggeratedly. Somehow Soul manages to pull together the willpower to _not_ stare at her perfect ass. She gets halfway across his room before he sighs, the anger leaving his shoulders as exhaustion starts to seep into his bones. He feels stiff and sore.

"Where are you going?" he asks wearily.

"Somewhere away from you," she bites back, all initial politeness gone.

"It's pouring out that way." She freezes midstep. "The way to the rest of the bar is that way," he says, a thumb pointing over his shoulder.

There's a beat of silence before she responds. "Is there any other way to get up to the office and Pa- _Spirit's_ living quarters?" Polite but terse. Meh, he doesn't particularly care.

He shakes his head even though she cant see and contemplates lying down right then and there. He settles for leaning back into the couch, closing his eyes and tilting his head back against the backrest of the old sofa. "You gotta go through the club."

He hears her shuffling a little before someone settles down next to him on the couch. Why is it hard to breathe? His back is sore and his shoulder is itching and stinging a little where he's leaning into the sofa, but he's too tired to care. He needs a nap.

He's three quarters of the way to unconsciousness, too tired to remember that there's a pretty girl sitting next to him, when a cool palm settles on his forehead. He's so sure that the girl from before is gone that he calls for Tsubaki instead, even though the hand is smaller than he remembers Tsubaki's being.

"Tsu?" he drawls.

"No, it's Maka."

"Maka…" The name rolls off his tongue. "Why does that sound familiar?" God, he needs water.

There is a pause. He can't see it, but she bites her lip.

"Spirit's… daughter. And it feels like you have a fever."

Soul sighs heavily, eyes still closed. "More things to worry about." His lips part slightly, breathing a little through the mouth. "Maka, sorry for calling you tiny tits." He swallows, no longer entirely present. "You have nice boobs." There is a sharp intake of breath and a hesitant pause but he's not paying attention anymore. "And your eyes are really pretty." He hears someone shuffling and the weight distribution on the couch changes.

"Come on."

"Huh?"

Suddenly he's not vertical anymore, but he's too far gone to realise his head is now pillowed comfortably on the lap of his boss' daughter.

A few hours later, when he wakes up sometime after 4am, shocked awake at Spirit's wailing and yelling threats his way, he finds himself staring up into tired but gentle green eyes.

After some hasty thanks and washing up, he catches a ride home with Black*Star, embarrassed out of his mind but too sick to bring himself to care too much until he's more coherent.

Even when he's home and resting in his own bed, he can't seem to forget those green green eyes.

Little does he know he never will, and will never have to.


End file.
